


À bloc

by legendofthefireemblem



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Professional Cyclists, Gen, Injury, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Tour de France, cycling au, feat. the entire grid and a few more
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-02-25 13:33:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22496902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/legendofthefireemblem/pseuds/legendofthefireemblem
Summary: Every cyclist dreams of wearing the yellow jersey at the Tour de France. Ever since he was little, he's been waiting for the opportunity to grasp that plush lion in his hands and raise it into the sky. It won't be this year, but he's much closer than before.George is setting his sight on a much more attainable prize: the best young rider classification. Max Verstappen has a tight grip on the competition and the Tour de France is where he focuses all his efforts. It's a long shot, especially considering it's his first three-week race.He's still sure as hell gonna try.
Relationships: Nicholas Latifi & George Russell
Comments: 6
Kudos: 20





	1. Étape 1 - Noirmoutier-en-l'Île à Fontenay-le-Comte

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **À bloc** (French):  
> 1\. _(cycling)_ flat out; riding as hard as possible

His legs are shaking.

He can't believe he's really here.

The Tour de France. Every cyclist's dream. Anything can happen at the Tour de France.

If you're not a domestique, that is.

Mercedes-AMG Petronas is the team with the strictest hierarchy; George knew that when he signed the paperwork. But they're the team that can take him there. As long as he does the work and keeps his head down, he could be looking at the best young rider classification next year - maybe even this year, if he plays his cards right. It's his first Grand Tour, but he's not going to let that stop him.

"Got inside your own brain yet?"

Alex's voice spooks him, causing George to shift back properly onto his bike.

"I still can't believe we're here."

Alex gives him a smug grin before swinging his arm around him. "I can. Two rookies about to make their first Grand Tour debut - which one of them will get the white jersey?"

"I will." Lando slots in between them with an easy smile.

"Nuh uh, you already made your Grand Tour debut at the Giro."

"And I didn't get the white jersey then. This is my redemption arc!"

"Not if you're not ready at the start." Carlos' amused chuckle causes Lando to scramble onto his bike. George can't help but to burst into laughter at the sight of Lando's face, Alex following suit. Lando sticks out his tongue, making an exaggerated expression as he follows his McLaren teammate through the shifting pack of riders. More than two hundred of the world's best cyclists are right here, swarming and itching to start.

"Don't forget me when you win, alright?" Before George can even form a proper reply, Alex disappears.

He should probably find the rest of his team.

He drifts forward, careful not to bump elbows with other cyclists as he searches for the grey shirts amongst the colourful kits.

”George!” A strong arm wraps around his own. Nicholas Latifi, the team’s other rookie, pulls him towards the left side of the road. Now that he knows where to look, the location of the team seems all too obvious: the cloud of grey amidst the bright summer day. George climbs back onto his bike, ignoring the sudden burst of panic when his shoes don't lock into the pedals. He sneaks a glance at Lewis Hamilton as he fumbles. The number one is tightly pinned to his jersey. George's legs stop trembling. He hears a click. There's some movement at the front of the pack. He lifts his other foot off the pavement. It's time to go.

They ride at a leisurely pace. George takes in the sight of the beautiful ocean. He won't have much time to glance at doorways, shops and signs during the race. His eyes are drawn back to the leading car as a man peeks out from the sunroof. The tension is electric. The départ flag is unfurled, waving furiously as the car speeds off into the distance.

Immediately, a group of riders burst forwards, breaking away from the group. George doesn't recognize any of the numbers, so he isn't surprised when no one gives chase. He lets the peloton surround and engulf him. For now, he'll keep his head down.

The jostling for position snaps him out of his trance. The intermediate sprint is ahead. The breakaway group still hasn't been caught, but even a small amount of points could mean the green jersey in the beginning of the Tour. He glances ahead, grinning when he spots the orange and blue colours of the McLaren team. Lando must be up front, trying to calculate whose wheel to follow. 

It was the wrong one.

Lando - and most of the other sprinters, it seems - were keeping an eye on Daniel Ricciardo (aiming for his fifth green jersey win) only to absolutely miss Kevin Magnussen's sudden acceleration. The few metres of extra pace make all the difference.

As Lando drifts back into the peloton, George gives him a pat on the back. “You tried.”

Lando glares back. His face scrunches up. He bursts into laughter.

George smiles all the way to the feed zone.

The line of soigneurs wipes it off his face.

The peloton slows down as they approach the feed zone, cyclists darting across the road to grab musettes and bidons. Nicholas pulls up next to him.

"Two and two?"

George nods, following Nicholas' wheel as he approaches the soigneurs. The Mercedes soigneur perks up, grabbing an extra feed bag from his other arm, extending it out to Latifi. George almost forgets to slow down again. The soigneur quickly holds two bags out again. George reaches out, pulling away the moment he feels both straps in his grasp. There's a few extra soigneurs holding bidons, but not many cyclists seem interested, leaving the path clear for him to make his way back into the peloton. He takes a moment to unpack his own musette, stuffing the food and treats in his back pockets before tossing the bag at a group of spectators. He balances the other bag, holding it out for Nicholas when he drifts back from the front.

"Thanks." Nicholas quickly takes stock of his own bag, putting away the food in a similar manner before tossing it and the other two bags he is carrying to the crowd. George relaxes, pulling out the sandwich from his back pocket and starting to eat. He never thought the skill of riding one-handed on his bike would be this useful, but he's going to need it a lot more before the Tour is done.

The sign for the category four climb whizzes by. The peloton doesn't even slow down as the road begins to slope upwards. He looks up. Renault is driving the pace. The breakaway is still out. The end of the stage is getting closer. It makes sense that they'd want the stage to finish with a bunch sprint.

When he rolls over the peak of the climb, he briefly wonders if he should be feeling tired.

As he descends, thankful for the lack of sharp turns, the voice of the team's director crackles over the radio. "The breakaway has taken all the bonification. Don't waste your energy."

The rider in front of him drifts slightly farther ahead. George grits his teeth, pedalling as he closes the gap. He can't afford to be distanced on the descent, especially since the breakaway still hasn't been caught.

The flats allow the peloton to regroup after the descent, but Renault continues to push the pace. Soon enough, the breakaway are within sight. The initial group of 20 riders has shrunken down to about seven. Reaching them before the finish line is inevitable.

The peloton slows down. The change of pace catches George by surprise, requiring some careful manoeuvring so as to not knock wheels with the rider in front of him. The breakaway is within 30 seconds of the peloton, but there's still over fifteen kilometres to go. It takes a few seconds before his brain can recall the correct strategy. Keeping the breakaway in an easily surmountable gap before the sprint discourages other breakaways. The peloton doesn't ease off the gas though. Passing the ten kilometres banner causes a slight increase in speed, breakaway members slowly drifting off and letting themselves get caught. Once they reach five kilometres to go, George realizes he's nearly at the back as the sprinters' teams start jockeying for positions. He rides towards the front, watching as a few teams start to form sprint trains.

He spots Lando's orange and blue kit lined up behind the Red Bull train, right on the wheel of Daniil Kvyat. Lots of sprint trains don't last the entire distance, but considering Max Verstappen himself is the leadout man, they've definitely got the power to do so. Daniel Ricciardo queues up next to Lando, also looking to grab onto Kvyat's wheel. George stares as Alex does his turn on the front, leading the train around the sharp corner and almost out of sight. As the peloton turns the corner, Alex slots in next to him, completely out of breath. George can see the finish line. The acceleration from the remaining trains is impressive. Once they reach 500 metres to go, Verstappen swings off, making it difficult for Lando and Daniel to overtake Daniil. George inhales. The crowd's cheers grow louder with the sprinters' accelerations. The other sprint trains lead out their sprinters. George cranes his neck but between the cyclists and the distance, he can't make out the winner. The peloton rolls past the finish line, only a few seconds behind the sprinting group.

George pulls up next to Lando, sitting on the ground, hands over his face. "I was so close." Judging by the cameras hovering above the man in the FDJ kit, Romain Grosjean is the sprint winner. George stares at the sight for a minute. The French are probably going crazy over this. Lando's words finally sink into his head.

"Wait, how close?"

Lando sighs. "Third?"

"Behind...?"

"Daniel Ricciardo."

George clasps a hand on Lando's shoulder.

"What?"

"Maillot blanc!"

Lando freezes. "Oh my god."

"Are you sure? If you were behind someone else..."

"I totally got third, I - I got the white jersey!" Lando's smile is infectious. He jumps up, exhaustion momentarily forgotten. "I'm finally reaching my redemption arc!"

"So this is where you've been." Carlos grabs Lando's arm with an easy smile. "Come on, Mr. Redemption, you need to get changed."

George watches as Lando excitedly babbles away to Carlos. His own team bus is waiting for him. The soundstage is out of sight, but he can hear the cheer from the crowd as he closes the door. Soon, that will be him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea of combining two of my longtime casual obsessions that I've watched since childhood had never occurred to me before now, but here it is! (Thank you George and Checo for all those cycling pics during the break). For those who don't know anything at all, the Tour de France is a three week bike race that is the pinnacle of ~~motorsport~~ cycling, well known for its difficulty and lengthy history. Like in F1, cyclists compete as part of a team. There are multiple different categories one can win in the Tour de France:  
> – maillot jaune (yellow jersey) - leader of the General Classification (fastest time completing the race)  
> \- maillot blanc (white jersey) - the fastest time under the age of 26  
> \- maillot vert (green jersey) - for best sprinter (calculated with points earned from sprints/finishes)  
> \- polkadot jersey - best climber (points awarded at climb summits)  
> \- red number - most combative  
> \- yellow number - best team (calculated using best time of three team members per stage)
> 
> As you can see, I haven't necessarily stuck them in their F1 teams for this fic (mostly for plot reasons). Each rider has a specialty and everyone on the current grid will have their chance to shine. Any critiques, questions or comments are welcome, especially opinions on what types of cyclists they are. 
> 
> Some terminology in case their use in the fic was unclear:  
> domestique - riders who work for the team leader/captain/General Classification hope  
> kit - cyclist uniform  
> breakaway - group of riders off the front  
> peloton - main (big) group of riders, usually containing the maillot jaune/lead members of the GC  
> soigneur - take care of the cyclists, hand out food and water bottles  
> bidon - water bottles  
> musette - feed bag, contain a variety of food/snacks at each team's discrepancy  
> bonification - bonus time awarded at a certain point (TdF recently started doing this)  
> sprint train - a line of riders, usually from the same team, with their sprinter at the back so they can make use of the slipstream  
> leadout man - the last person before the sprinter in the train, usually makes a big acceleration and block other sprinters when they swing off the front
> 
> [The top ten standings after this stage.](https://legendofthefireemblem.tumblr.com/post/613674023853981696/the-standings-after-stage-1-of-my-tour-de-france)
> 
> I don't have an update schedule (mostly due to uni), but I'll do my best to post whenever possible.  
> Thank you so much for reading!


	2. Étape 2 - Mouilleron-Saint-Germain à La Roche-sur-Yon

There's no shortage of coverage about the first stage. “Meet Lando Norris: McLaren’s Rising Young Talent” and other assorted headlines cover the internet. George wonders just how many interviews Lando gave yesterday. Even then, the coverage doesn’t hold a candle to that of Romain Grosjean.

Everything from career compilations to analyses of all the French hopes to recipes from his cookbook are trending. No matter what channel is playing on his hotel TV, Romain Grosjean’s face is on it. George feels like he’s memorized the events during the last kilometre of yesterday’s race down to the millisecond. Even the French commentary is recognizable, never failing to get him to glance every time it plays. The predictions for today’s stage all have Romain and Lando listed as ones to watch - compared to yesterday’s, where Romain is mentioned as an afterthought and Lando is conspicuously absent.

”Today is for the sprinters. Don’t waste your energy. Save it for tomorrow.” Directeur sportif Toto Wolff’s words echo through his head as he devours his breakfast. Tomorrow is the team time trial, the first stage where he has direct pressure to perform well. He can’t afford to exhaust himself today.

The starting pack is no smaller than yesterday, only this time, he sticks by his team’s side instead of getting lost in the crowd. He spots Lando making his way to the front, the _maillot blanc_ on his shoulders. His orange and black Merida bike have been swapped out for a white one, along with his helmet and socks. George leaves his bike with Latifi and stands on the curb to get a better view.

The category leaders sit at the front on their bikes, organized for a picture. Grosjean leads two of the four major categories, but you can’t wear two jerseys at once. Yellow covers his kit, from helmet to shoes. Even then, the yellow jersey stands out, almost as bright as his beaming smile. Kevin Magnussen wears the green jersey on loan from Romain, having obtained just enough points from the intermediate sprint and stage finale to scrape into second place. Lando’s smile is the same hue as his jersey. Polkadots cover the kit of Kamui Kobayashi - a relative unknown before yesterday. The camera flashes bring George back to the present.

The lead four stay in front for a brief moment after the official départ. Then the first rider bursts forwards. The breakaway forms just as quickly as the previous stage and is let go just as easily. It's a much smaller group, only about five members. George settles into his own tempo. The category four climb is approaching.

He spends most of the stage on autopilot. Grabbing two musettes doesn't seem half the challenge that it was yesterday. He only notices the reabsorption of the breakaway when one of its former members drifts backwards past him to the convoy. He doesn't shift to try to glimpse the intermediate sprint or think about bonification. The radio is abnormally silent, only mentioning periodic weather updates. No one talks to him except for Nicholas, who offers him bidons and gels from the team car.

He's in the zone.

Which is why on the sharp right hand turn towards the finish, George finds himself slowing down, swerving to avoid the crash unfolding in front of him.

They pass by without stopping - the race doesn’t stop for anyone. Toto's voice comes over the radio to confirm what he already knows. No one from Mercedes has been caught in the crash, so they're to keep going until the end.

A flash of white catches his eye. By the time his brain catches up, he's a hundred metres away from the sight.

Lando is caught up in it.

The roar of the crowd is all he hears up until he crosses the finish line. He stumbles off his bike, turning back towards the race when Latifi grabs his arm.

"Hey, we gotta cool down."

George doesn't resist as Nicholas pulls him off the asphalt and into the team bus. He can't take his eye off the coverage on-screen, replaying the crash multiple times, even highlighting the touch of wheels that incited it. Lando certainly isn't the worst affected, but he ends up on the concrete all the same.

"It looks a lot like your insta pictures, you know?"

"Huh?" It takes a few moments for the words to click in his brain. George has unzipped his jersey, sprawling over the bus' couch with a refreshing drink in his hand. He's definitely got more than a few similar pictures on his profile. He passes his phone to Nicholas. "Take a pic, then."

Latifi takes a couple snapshots before handing his phone back. George exhales as he scrolls through them, selecting the best one and stumbling over a caption. The moment he closes the application, a small chime and notification pops up.

_Not very aero, is it?_

Lando's comment brings a smile to his face. It's not long before Alex chimes in as well, banding together to poke fun at his shirtlessness. 

Tomorrow is all about aerodynamics. He'll be ready. Lando will be too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Directeur sportif - manages the team during the race, giving strategy over the radio and following in the team car  
> Convoy - the group of team cars, led by the neutral service, offical race and medic cars
> 
> I recently found out that the Bahrain-Merida team became Bahrain McLaren this year. [Yes, the same McLaren that is in F1.](https://www.instagram.com/p/B52rNfzIooF/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link) Carlos and Lando in Bahrain McLaren kits when?
> 
> Also need to consider Ineos [of Team Ineos cycling fame](https://www.instagram.com/p/B8Y0QExK76H/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link) have a sponsor spot on Mercedes for 2020. Even more cycling and F1 crossover potential.


	3. Étape 3 - Cholet

George shakes his legs as he sits on the couch in the team bus. It’s only been two days of racing and already his body is telling him he should be out there, cycling. But instead of over four hours of paced promenade, today is less than forty minutes of team time trialing. And if they take forty minutes... that’s a bad sign.

George watches as the Ferrari team slowly make their way past the bus, red kits shining under the French sun. While their speed focused approach doesn't exactly make them look strong for the mountain stages, it makes their probability to win this stage an almost certainty. George checks the clock. Soon enough, it'll be Mercedes' turn to walk to the warm up area as well.

The Tour de France coverage is quietly playing on the TV in the corner. The BWT Cycling Point team are just starting to get into formation after their départ, accelerating out of the saddle. The lighter bikes and long, smooth triangular helmets are standard for time trialing, all in the name of aerodynamics. George fiddles with the zipper on his skinsuit. It feels tighter, the longer sleeves foreign on his arms. He's never been the best at time trialing; the pace setting for the shorter length always leaves him either breathless or with too much untapped energy.

"Hey, are you going to take off your shirt already?" Nicholas gives him an easy smile.

George pulls the zipper back up to the top. He's not alone; at least not for this stage. "I think it would be too distracting for you."

Latifi's laugh fills the bus.

The nerves don't return until they're lined up at the start, clock starting to count down. They don't have any special jerseys or numbers yet, but today is one of those days where they can make a huge difference.

George can't hear the announcer over the roar of the crowd. A man off to his right counts down from ten, but it's the départ flag waved on his left that gets him rolling off the track and into motion. He adjusts his grip on the handlebars and leans forwards. Everyone slots into place quickly, the team car pulling onto the road behind them.

It isn't long before it's his turn at the front of the team. The minute he spends pulling them feels like an eternity. The wind isn't horribly strong, but he does remember Toto saying something about the possibility of a headwind near the end of today's course. Sometimes he wishes Mercedes had hired him as an exclusive young prospect, the way Red Bull latched on to Max Verstappen. Even though the Austrian team hasn't started the time trial yet, he's certain Verstappen won't be doing any of the work today.

Hamilton swings to the front, giving him a brief reprise. At least in Mercedes, even the team leader puts in some work.

The sound of cheering reaches his ears as they approach the time check at Sainte-André-de-la-Marche. George hadn't noticed how empty the side of the road was of spectators until now. The line and banner make him want to pick up the pace, but there’s still 20 kilometres to the finish.

All George can do is make sure he lasts until the finish.

Not even a minute after they pass the time check, Toto’s voice crackles over the radio. “You are currently ten seconds behind Ferrari, ten seconds. Keep up the pace.”

Ten seconds isn't all bad, considering how fast Ferrari is. They just can't lose any more time.

The next ten kilometres zoom by. It's easy to follow the pace of his team, but hard to see a pacemaker drop off. It's only the time of the first four riders to cross the line that matters at the finish. He needs to be in that group.

"Eight seconds behind." No sooner do they pass the line at Côte de la Séguinière than Toto's voice echo in their ears. "There's a headwind from here to the finish."

George gulps. A headwind makes the turns on the front far more exhausting. Even then, Lewis Hamilton swings onto the front to pull them. George knows he has to do the same.

The radio updates are more frequent now, each second lost causing a surge in pace.

"Don't burn yourselves out. There's still more than two weeks of this race."

The pace increases relax after that.

They're still not taking it easy, however, and at five kilometres to go, another pace maker drops off the group. George feels his heart jump into his throat. His legs are still feeling fine. Even then, he's nervous about overworking himself, petering out in the final week because he wasted too much energy. The dread is worse than the act itself. Relief washes over his body as Nicholas takes over two kilometres from the finish. Latifi pushes harder, making George feel as if he's cycling in place. He can't let himself get separated before the end.

He can see the finish line, just a few hundred metres away.

They fan out. Nicholas gets out of the saddle. It takes all of George's restraint not to do the same. Each metre passes exponentially faster, the crowd getting exponentially louder. George knows there's a timer on the other side of the banner but he doesn't bother looking up as he lunges for the line and stops pedalling.

He glides down the cleared out road, catching his breath.

"You okay?" Asks Latifi.

A little off in the distance, George can see a tent filled with eight chairs - the hot seats, currently occupied by the Ferrari team. They aren't getting up.

A bottle of maple syrup is shoved in his face. George laughs, taking it. "What's this?"

"Sugar." Nicholas grabs another maple syrup bottle from a Mercedes soigneur, unscrewing the lid and putting it straight to his lips. George imitates him. The golden liquid is both sweet and refreshing. It's a little strange to think about, but it's exactly what he needed at this moment. 

"Come on, I bet Red Bull still haven't even gotten to the first checkpoint yet." George feels his expression sour, even though he's not entirely sure he wanted it to. He's certainly not getting his hands on the white jersey today. "I have a stash of Nutella and unlimited access to the toaster."

George raises an eyebrow. "Is that allowed?"

"As long as they're too busy to notice."

He devours a lot more Nutella toasts than he should allow himself. He shouldn't be surprised about not getting caught considering how glued to the television everyone is, watching the results. At the very least, they end up in second place - but still twenty seconds behind Ferrari. The maillot blanc drifts further out of his reach, onto the shoulders of Charles Leclerc. The Monégasque cyclist will likely hold on to the jersey until the mountains. There's a twinge of sympathy for Lando, injured and white jersey-less, but it goes away. Sprinters don't usually do that well in the general classification anyways, unless their name is Daniel Ricciardo.

Besides, at the end, the maillot blanc will be on his shoulders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could not resist changing Racing Point to Cycling Point.
> 
> I read an article about a Canadian tennis player sipping maple syrup to refill on sugar and considering that's something that you need to do after a race, I couldn't help it, especially since maple syrup season just started.
> 
> Updates will likely continue being slow until after finals (which end in mid-April for me).
> 
> A few of the usual spring races are in question due to the coronavirus as well as some cyclists in quarantine. Hopefully everything turns out ok and just a general reminder to everyone to take care of yourself.


	4. Étape 4 - La Baule à Sarzeau

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quite frankly, I did not think we would be in this situation in the beginning of the year: one of the longest F1 winter breaks and the Grand Tours in question (as well as the cancellation of all the beloved spring classics). Even then, it is still the correct decision to make.
> 
> Hopefully my fic, even if it is a pale imitation of the sport, can shine some light on it in anticipation for 2021.

Ferrari's victory makes it look like they're dominating the Tour. Yellow jersey? Sebastian Vettel. White jersey? Charles Leclerc. Polkadot jersey? Antonio Giovinazzi - although George goes back and rewatches coverage to verify, since he didn't even notice Giovinazzi wore the jersey yesterday. The yellow numbers stand out against their red kit, complementing the infamous prancing horse logo. 

It's too much.

George wonders if all the red he's been exposed to will burn his retinas.

Toto seems tenser when they talk strategy. George understands why. It's another usual long flat stage, which means it's another chance for Ferrari to keep their momentum and their jerseys. They're all craving the mountains, at the very least more than the category 4 climbs that they've done. Tomorrow's route seems like it will finally sate that desire, but they still have to get through today's stage.

There's a calm atmosphere around the team buses. Lando, however, is pacing.

"What are you doing?" George can't help but laugh as Lando jumps mid-pace.

Before Lando can even reply, Carlos' voice carries from the entrance of the McLaren team bus. "Mercedes don't have a sprinter, right? You can take him."

"Hey!" Not stopping his sprint-skips, Lando moves towards Carlos and hits him lightly on the shoulder.

"Loud, injures other teammates..."

"You love me!"

"Insufferable ego, can't stop talking..."

"You're just mad because you took my milk bidon."

George sputters. "I'm sorry, what?" 

"Come on, it was all over social media." Lando seems strangely proud of the statement as he shoves his phone into George's hands. Sure enough, his most recent post shows him drinking from the milk-filled bidon, along with a video where he squirts it on his face. Another has Carlos' disgusted reaction after taking a sip. George hesitates before scrolling through the comments. Reading through Lando's back and forth with Alex tugs on his heart. He had never missed an opportunity to tease either of them before. "Do they chain you to the bike at Merc, or what?"

George gives a tight-lipped smile. "Something like that."

He checks his watch. It's not early enough to be lining up at the start, but seeing how Lando is hanging off of Carlos leaves him with a bad taste in his mouth.

"Oh, do you have warm up now?" Asks Carlos.

"No, Toto's coming round to check if our chains are tight enough." He tosses Lando's phone back. "I can't let him know I've escaped."

Lando's snicker makes him smile.

He's no sooner turned past the McLaren bus when Nicholas stops him, eyebrow raised.

"Consorting with the enemy?"

George rolls his eyes. "Well, what are you doing here?"

Latifi's grin grows. "Rescuing you." He puts his hand on George's shoulder, steering him back towards the team bus.

George checks his phone. The notifications from his group chat with Lando and Alex fill the screen, burying anything else.

 _Good luck on the sprint today!_ reads Alex's last message.

A sticker of Lando in the white jersey pops up. 

George inhales.

_Don't crash this time._

His finger twitches. The message sends.

George suddenly can't bear to look at his phone. Maybe that message was a little too on the nose.

It vibrates.

_have fun eating my dust XP_

George exhales.

The jitters stay with him long past the start. Even as he watches Nico Hülkenberg accelerate off the front straight after the first roundabout, George can't shake it. The small breakaway of four takes off into the distance. Despite his wobbly legs, he manages to keep the pace of the peloton, slotting into the middle of the pack. Not even the sunflower fields along the route calm him, although he spends so much time staring at them that he misses the sprint happening at the front once they enter Derval.

Nicholas tugs on his jersey. "Hey, feed zone time."

The area is a little more chaotic this time, with sprinters mingling as they drift back into the peloton. No matter how many times he has to do this during the Tour, he's quite certain he'll never stop marvelling at the complete chaos that never causes an incident. Musettes are tossed between teammates and into the crowd, water and unknown liquids squirted from bidons onto riders and the road, empties rolled to the sloping edges, wrappers being unfolded and thrown away. It always feels like a small miracle to make it through the feed zone unharmed. He hands Nicholas the second musette he grabbed after the former comes back from delivering to Lewis and Valtteri.

George unpacks his musette with care - he slots the water into the holder on his bike, the protein shake bidon and energy gels into his back pocket and unwraps the sandwich, making sure his grip on the handlebars is tight. He nearly swerves when the sweet taste fills his mouth. He looks down at his not-sandwich. It's a nutella-filled brioche. George glances sideways at Nich. Nicholas raises his own nutella brioche in response.

George's legs stop shaking.

The pace on the category four climb is surprisingly slow, considering the breakaway is eight minutes out. Strangely, Ferrari haven't contributed one bit to the pacemaking, despite the fact that they'll lose the yellow jersey by an enormous margin at this pace. The teams with excellent sprinters are getting antsy though, and by the time that they cross over the top of Côte de Saint-Jean-la-Poterie, Renault pulls to the front in order to increase the pace. Ricciardo, their star sprinter, still hasn't won a single stage.

Even McLaren do a short stint at the front. However, the breakaway still seems just out of reach. With a two minute lead at ten kilometres to go, George wonders if today's the day the breakaway finally wins.

The lead has barely decreased at five kilometres, mostly due to the sprint teams starting to eye each other up instead of setting the pace. For a second, George wonders if Toto will tell them to go to the front. Two minutes is too much to give away this early in the competition. Instead, Ferrari line up at the front, bright red kits making it easy to see them shift the peloton into a higher gear.

There's a strange movement out of the corner of his left eye. George unconsciously starts to drift to the right. A wheel knocks into his own. He doesn't let go of the handlebars as he falls, watching his view shift from the ground to the sky. The impact leaves him breathless and aching. For a moment, George wonders if he's broken his collarbone. He doesn't move. He can hear the shifting of bikes around him.

"Come on," Suddenly Nicholas is there, pulling him and his bike up, practically pushing him onto the seat. "Go do your job."

George's legs are shaky as he pedals past the strewn cyclists still on the ground, bikes and bidons littering the road. As he cycles to the small group of Mercedes riders somewhere in between ground zero and the peloton, George wonders if Nicholas is in it. A quick glance back makes him realize that Latifi is waiting by the road with a bike that clearly isn't his.

The wrist flick from the rider in front draws his attention. Lewis Hamilton, their own GC prospect and leader, is telling him to do a turn on the front. As George drifts forwards, he realizes that the number eight on Lewis' bike doesn't correspond at all the the number one pinned to his kit. He's riding Nicholas' bike.

His own frenetic pace doesn't seem to throw off Lewis or Valtteri, although he does catch Stoffel sending him a death glare as he takes over.

They still manage to catch up to the peloton before the finish line.

There’s no time loss relative to the main group, to his competitors, to Max Verstappen, but George still feels horrible when he crosses the line. He doesn’t stop to look for Alex or Lando - a thought he had briefly entertained before the crash. He instead dismounts and heads straight to the Mercedes soigneurs.

They whisper soothing reassurances as they whisk him back towards the team bus, waiting for the team physician to finish examining Lewis before he can see him.

George really hopes he hasn’t broken his fucking collarbone. 


End file.
